Little Miss Holmes What Do You See?
by Gemcrow
Summary: After Perla's mum died, she traveled to a London to meet her dad who just so happens to be the world's only consulting detective. Her mind is fogged with worries and doubts about him. As if that wasn't enough, someone keeps texting her. Someone familiar... She will learn that being Sherlock's daughter is not all sunshine, rainbowsand unicorns. The BBC owns everything except Perla.
1. Anxiety, Rain and Birth Certificates

A.n. This is my first story. I hope it goes well... Have a good read:)

Sorry guys! This story has changed a bit from when I first published it. I deleted some scenes and added some new.

Gemcrow

Perla closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to banish the sickly feeling of dread from her stomach. She was tired from a long flight from America. She supposed she wouldn't have been so tired if she had actually have slept during the flight but she was much too nervous.

Paying the taxi driver, she got out of the car. She was standing in front of a cute little café called Speedy's. Right next to it, there was a black door with the address 221B written on the top. Below the address was a gold knocker, slanted to the right. Just the look of the door was foreboding, as if persuading her not to knock.

Perla closed her eyes, took a deep breath and started walking with her tired limbs towards the door. Could she do it? What would he say? Would he let her stay? She dearly hoped so. She had nowhere else to go after what happened... No she would not think of that.

Perla, yet again, took a deep breath and knocked on the door. The thud thud thud of the door seemed to echo through the house. Perla waited 1,2,3,4 seconds. Maybe they weren't home. Maybe she should figure out something else. After all- before she could continue her jumbled thoughts of worries, the door opened revealing an elderly lady with a kind face and a beautiful purple shirt and a black skirt.

"Hello dear. How can I help you?" She asked kindly. Oh Perla liked her. She seemed nice.

"Um I th-think so. I-is Sherlock Holmes here? " Perla's voice was shaky. Not good.

"Yes dear. He's right upstairs. Come in," the lady said, ushering her in. "You must be cold. It's freezing out there!" Perla blinked in surprise and glanced outside. Raining-no **pouring.** Perla looked down at her dress which was drenched. Oops.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't realise I was so wet. I don't want to get your floors wet," Perla apologised feeling guilty already. Great she hadn't even been here five minutes and she was already messing things up.

"Not to worry dear. It's fine. I'm Mrs. Hudson by the way. I'm Sherlock's landlady," Mrs. Hudson said.

By now, they were on the landing at the top of the stairs.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson says opening a door. " There's a client here to see you."

Perla stepped in and looked around at the most peculiar apartment she had ever seen. Their were books, there was a skull there was even what she thought was fingers on a table in what appeared to be the kitchen. In the living room, there was two chairs and a couch that looked so inviting to curl up and go to sleep for a million years.

In one of the chairs was a man with short blond hair, a cozy looking sweater which Perla supposed was called a jumper here in England and a computer on his lap. In the other chair was a tall, slim man with a tight purple shirt and black pants- no trousers and very, very curly black hair. This must absolutely positively, inevitably, be her father, Sherlock Holmes.

A.n. Sorry this chapter was short but I promise the next one will be longer:)

By the way, I will upload a new chapter every Sunday!


	2. A Good Sleep and Weird Text Messages

This has been edited!

Arrogant. That was the first word that came to her mind when she saw Sherlock, her father, for the first time. The way he dressed, the way he sat -even the way he blinked.

"Not a client," Sherlock said in a clear, monotone (almost robotic) voice. "At least, not like our usual clients."

"All right, well, I'll be downstairs," Mrs. Hudson said, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.

"Come take a seat," the man said kindly gesturing towards the couch.

Perla hesitantly took a seat on the leather couch eyes drooping from exhaustion.

"Something traumatic recently happened causing you to move here. This is your first day here and you only got off the plane two hours ago. You went straight here from the airport so I'm assuming the traumatic thing that happened to you is very important-why else would you fly all the way here when you have no family or friends here. So what is it? It better be good or you should leave here now. I don't like boring cases," Sherlock stated in what seemed to be one breath.

Perla blinked two times, a look of shock written all over her face. "Woah," she said. "Ummm... woah!" She started to fidget with a loose string on her skirt, brushed a loose strand of curly blond hair from her face and looked up again, straight into the eyes of her father. "I don't know where to start really. Ummm... Here!" She said brandishing two pieces of paper towards her father, getting more panicked by the second. "It says in the letter from my mum that I am your...erm...daughter.

The flat was deadly silent. It seemed as if the whole world had frozen, holding it's breath. The flat was frozen 1,2,3,4,5 seconds.

"What?" The man sputtered, a look of confusion and denial on his face.

Sherlock scanned the first page and then went to scan the second.

"The second is my birth certificate," Perla said, desperately trying to clear things up a little.

Perla waited 1,2,3,4,5,6 more seconds.

"Okay," Sherlock said simply.

Perla frowned, very confused.

"What?" John questioned." You're just going to believe her?"

"She's not lying," Sherlock stated, putting his hands in prayer position.

"So... What now?" Perla asked uncomfortably.

"Well you came here for a reason- not just to tell me that you were my daughter. The letter you handed me was from your mum who wrote that she wanted you to live with me. Why would your mother suddenly tell you that. She wouldn't of. I knew your mum well enough to know she's anything but random. So she must have died," Sherlock said very quickly.

"Yeah. Our house caught fire- s-she didn't m-make it," Perla stuttered as she closed her eyes trying desperately not to cry. That would the worst and most embarrassing thing she could ever do right now.

"That's why you didn't bring any belongings. They burnt down," Sherlock stated quietly. "Well I suppose you'll have to live here from now on."

Every muscle relaxed when she heard those words. She was so happy she could cry. She wouldn't, of course. That would be embarrassing. It would also make her even more tired than she already was.

"You can sleep in my room. I barely ever use it," Sherlock said as if he read her mind. "I suspect you are having dreadful jet lag. Down the hall. Last door."

Perla muttered a quick thanks and staggered off to bed.

She had dreams that night. Not the good kind that are all warm and fluffy, but the kind that make you feel trapped. Like being in a locked room that is slowly filling up with water inch by inch.

Perla woke up with tears in her eyes and cold sweat running down her back. Her limbs felt stiff- probably because she slept for so long.

Sighing, Perla got out of bed and towards the living room. She was aware that she was dirty and needed a shower and some clothes. Not just the ones she had been wearing for a couple days now.

Sun streamed in beams through the windows. Oddly, it looked about 2 in the afternoon. It couldn't be the same day as she fell asleep at about 2 yesterday or the day before that.

Honestly, she didn't know what day it was.

"Mornin'" she muttered as she sat down on the couch.

Sherlock snickered. "More like afternoon. You've been sleeping for about 24 hours. Is that even possible?"

"Apparently," Perla replied rubbing her forehead.

Just then, Perla heard a ringing from her phone, telling her she had a new text.

Every fairy tale needs a damsel in distress. -JM

"Huh. Somebody probably got the wrong number," Perla said to herself, deleting the message and putting her phone in the back pocket of her jeans.

Cups clinked in the kitchen, signalling that John was awake. Perla liked John. He seemed like a caring person. Perla thought he probably was in a war of some sort.

The way he held himself screamed military. John sat down in the same chair as he did when she first arrived at 221B Baker Street.

"W-was it Afghanistan or Iraq?" Perla asked nervously, not wanting to be rude.

All heads in the room snapped towards her. "Sorry?" John questioned.

"W-well your posture is like someone who was a soldier, who experienced a war.

You also have a tan line which says that the most likely places you could have been in were Afghanistan or Iraq," Perla then looked away and quickly added. "Sorry."

"That was bloody brilliant!" John exclaimed with a big smile plastered on his face.

Perla frowned "I-it was?"

"Yes! You're like Sherlock!" John was getting way too excited now.

Sherlock was sitting very still at this moment in time. His hands were to his forehead in prayer position, his eyes closed.

"Do you read John's blog?" Sherlock questioned, his eyes still closed.

"John has a blog?" Perla questioned, her eyes growing wide. "I never knew that!

What do you post on there? How many people read it? Is it a private blog?" Perla turned to face John, firing quick questions at him.

"Ummm. Just a couple people read it," John replied.

A snort came from the couch where Sherlock was now lying. "And all of Scotland Yard."

John rolled his eyes.

Sherlock didn't look convinced at what Perla replied with.

Perla's phone chimed once again.

Getting bored.- JM

Perla picked up her phone. He must not notice he has the wrong number, she thought.

Sorry, I think you have the wrong number

Perla set her phone down again and looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"What's your number?" Sherlock asked suddenly, jumping up and going to collect his phone. He appeared a couple minutes later, sat down on the couch and turned his phone on. He looked up at Perla expectantly.

"Ummm," Perla started, "06 4576 8722."

Sherlock started to type her number into his phone.

The chirpy chime went off again. Only this time it was from Sherlock.

"Thanks," she said, smiling awkwardly.

An unpleasant silence filled the flat. Perla shifted uncomfortably, playing with the hem of her skirt. Why was she always so awkward? Couldn't she act normal? The kids at school were right. She was a freak. A freak of awkwardness. A freak of nature, knowing stuff she shouldn't. A freak that nobody likes.

"Yoohoo," a voice said. Mrs. Hudson opened the door to their flat, looking around until she spotted Perla.

"Hello dear. I thought you might like to go shopping with me. It looks like you need new clothes," she said, looking down at Perla's dirty outfit.

"I would love to," Perla replied, slightly surprised. She got off the couch and went to go get her jacket. This was going to be interesting.


	3. Little Talk

A. N. This and the next chapter is going to be a small but I hope you enjoy it!

Gemcrow

Four hours, 13 shops and an argument about who should pay for Perla's clothing (in which Mrs. Hudson won), they arrived back at 221B Baker Street.

"Thank you so much Mrs. Hudson. I really appreciate this. It was nice," Perla said, trying to put on a warm smile.

"No problem dear. I know it is hard without your mum around. If you ever want to talk about boys or bras or whatever, come to me," Mrs. Hudson replied.

Perla's face turned beat red. "Umm... Thanks Mrs. Hudson." And with that, she scrambled up stairs.

The flat looked the same as when Perla had left. Books were strewn all over the floor, science equipment was on the dining room table and, oddly enough, there was a scull on top of the fireplace.

Perla stumbled into the flat, weighed down by all the bags full of clothes she ( or rather Mrs. Hudson) had bought.

The first store they had gone to had been overflowing with people. There was a woman who was wearing all black and looked like a ninja, a little girl with sparkles all over her hair, a boy around 7 who screamed "Clara Oswald!" at every woman that passed him, there was even a man all on his own with a white t- shirt, jeans and a baseball cap. He had been listening to music, chewing gum and holding a rather bored expression on his face. His dark, lightless eyes had been scanning the crowd until they rested on Perla. His face... his face looked like any other face in the crowd but something was different about him. Something was... off.

Even four hours later, she got cold shivers just thinking about his face.

"Hello Perla," came a kind voice from the chair in the living room. "Have a nice time?"

"Hello John. Yeah, I had a great time," Perla responded, coming over to sit on the couch. "Although I am really tired."

"I suspect you would be, seeing as you were gone for four hours," John said awkwardly, desperately trying to make good conversation.

Perla was saved from this dreadful small talk by Sherlock who came storming in from his bedroom.

Perla snickered. "Bored?"

A "humph" was Sherlock's only reply.


	4. The Unknown

A tall, dark figure was standing in front of the imposing gates. The clock struck midnight. The wind whispered to the trees and the little pond that was confined inside was as still as a statue. All was silent. As if the world was waiting. Waiting for the story to unfold.

"Can I help you?" A hoarse voice asked.

The man peered inside to look at the great grounds that surrounded a mansion. A silhouette was peering close to his face, probably trying to make him seem intimidating.

"I believe so," the man replied in his silky voice. "I heard that your employer is selling some things that... may be useful to my boss."

The man raised a bushy eyebrow. "And whom, may I ask, is your source?"

"Ah. You see, that is classified. But I can tell you who my boss is," the man replied, not wanting him to lose interest.

"And who's that?"

The man smiled. He always liked this part but he had to admit, he did always seem to make it quite dramatic.

"Moriarty." That was the only word he needed to get what he wanted these days. That one world, if he wanted, could probably get him the Crown Jewels. He wouldn't try that, of course, as that may end badly.

The man's eyes widened in shock. "Ah. I see. If I can ask, what does he need it for?"

"That is another classified thing that I can't tell you," the man responded, losing patients. "Look. If you are not going to give me what I want, I might as well leave now." He started to turn around.

"Wait! I'll get you exactly what you need. But," he bit his bottom lip. "You'll have to tell me your name."

"Sebastian," he said.


End file.
